Vanitas
by La Javert
Summary: Erik seeks shelter after fleeing his lair. He experiences a moment of revelation, and comfort from an old friend. ...Written back in 1996.


He had done it again.

He had once considered his impulsive tendencies to one of the virtues of his nature. With time, these tendencies had been inclined more towards rage than acts of creation. When he had left the day before, however, he was propelled by something that certainly wasn't rage, though it was certainly just as fierce, and it lingered on his lips, his cheeks, for hours. And thinking of it now, that energy, and the fight or flight instinct that accompanied it, returned momentarily, though it was muted by his exhaustion – another new feeling.

Impulsiveness. Yes, that was reason for his current state. He was wet, muddied, and alone, crouched in the back of a utility closet at a building filled with low-rent flats. Her own entrance had been locked, when he'd tried it, and he had no intention of standing outside in the hallway, waiting to be discovered and reported by other terrified tenants. As for breaking in, well, he certainly hadn't pocketed any lock-picking tools when he'd smashed his way through the passage. No lockpicking tools. No change of clothing. No wigs. No masks. No hat. No coat. No money, though the bulk of that was held in trust. And for all these reasons, he was crouched behind several mops and buckets, shaking slightly, and hoping no maid would feel a need for any midnight cleaning.

He had slid a note under her door. And now he sat here hoping against hope, reflexively begging a God he didn't believe in, that she would find it and have enough mercy – or at the very least some shred of twisted mirth – to save him from his current state of indignity.

----------------------------------

"Dignity?"

He squinted at the widening bar of light from the opening door. He did not know how many hours had passed, and he realized that he must have fallen asleep in the interim. Startled, he jumped from his crouched position, and kicked two of the metal buckets as he rose, which made a cacophony loud enough to wake half the residents of the floor as well as the ones below him.

"God knows how you ever moved about unnoticed. Get out of there."

He moved clumsily towards the door, still slightly stunned by the light of her lantern. As he moved closer, he could see that her face was ashen. No sooner had he locked eyes with her than he felt a sharp sting across the breadth of his cheek, and her hand fell back to her side. She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him roughly after her towards her door.

----------------------------------

"You ask to retain some dignity? You are arrogant enough to put this in writing? I cannot even look at you right now, Erik. And not for the reason which I'm certain you'd ascribe to that. Every rational sense I have is telling me to turn the police onto your trail. And do not think I haven't been considering that option since . . . Buquet."

He sneered at her from his seat on her sofa. "You hated Buquet."

"I did not approve of Buquet. But I never wished him dead."

Marie-Justine Giry was reflexively making tea, disregarding the fact that it was now at least two o'clock in the morning. Her face was still pale and drawn, and Erik was aware of tears lingering on the rims of her eyes. But he knew the look. These were not tears of sadness or sympathy – the strength it requried of her to hold them in made the cups tremble in their saucers with her rage. She placed them down on the low oak table with a clatter so loud it threatened to break them.

By now, Erik felt strangely lucid, and his energy had returned in a sort of nervous disbelief at the events of the previous 48 hours. A smile kept playing at the corners of his mouth, and his greatest impulse now was to open his mouth and let the room ring with peals of uncontrolled, booming laughter. Mme. Giry sat across from him now, her face still blank and unyielding – "like a mask," he thought immediately, and rather stupidly, and quickly took a scorching gulp of tea to stop up his mouth before he spoke or laughed in a way too inappropriate to be properly human.

"I have no words for you," she said slowly, each syllable placed and measured to inflict the greatest pain. "You ask for dignity, but you do not deserve it. You have had my friendship, but you have ceased to deserve or to even desire that. However, though it may now be against His wishes, I long ago promised to God that you would have my protection. And for that reason, I will tell the authorities nothing of your whereabouts.

"However, you may not remain here. You will tell me what you need from me. And then I shall expect you to leave."

He saw the corners of her mouth tremble now, and realized with some incredulity that it was paining her to sever him in this way. He had expected worse at her hands, this night, and found himself rather dumbstruck by her emotional reaction. It made him suddenly aware of his own numbness. He had never experienced denial before, and was finding its effects, or lack of effects, completely puzzling.

"What I need . . ." He had been clutching the tea cup fiercely with both hands, and now carefully lowered it to the table.

"You need the money. Then you shall have it."

She stood up and left the room for a moment, then returned with a small, locked wooden box. She placed it in his hands, and took a key on a chain from around her neck, and handed this to him as well. He carefully opened the box.

"I saw M. Letour today, and withdrew your funds. I knew you could not go far without them. All these years of hiding. Stealing. So rarely touching a sou. Do you even know how to keep it? How to spend? Letour invested portions of it, and I believe you will find the amount rather more than the sum of 20,000 francs per month. Though do not think it was not greater still – to buy silence now, for you, is a great deal more expensive than it has been in the past.

"God knows how you will keep it safe like that. But I know you have your ways. And frankly, I'd rather not know."

Erik was aware of the loop of catgut inside his pocket, pressing against his thigh. There, at least, was one thing he had not forgotten.

The one thing he had thought to bring with him – a ready murder weapon. He groaned quite suddenly as the significance of this thought struck him. He nearly upended the box, with its countless stacks of bills, onto the worn rug at his feet. He quickly placed the box on the table, and reached once more for his tea, to calm him.

And then, without warning, what he had been fighting to restrain broke free from him. He heard the cup rattling in its saucer, felt the hot liquid strike his legs, and realised he was shaking. And then he recognized the sound of his own laughter. It escaped his mouth and shook him, shook the china out of his hands and onto the floor, where the rug somehow spared it from shattering.

Mme. Giry was staring at him, her face suddenly red. "Stop that!" she shouted at him, though her voice failed in its anger and conveyed the first real fear she'd expressed since his arrival. "Stop! Erik!"

He held himself, and the laughter continued, rising in pitch. A neighbour pounded from below, objecting to the sound, which boomed out with an unnatural-seeming echo, shaking out through all the walls of the flat. Soon Erik felt hot tears spilling down his cheeks, and the laughter began to catch in his throat, choking him with great involuntary sobs.

His arms were wrapped tightly around his own chest, and he sat doubled over in his seat, the sobs reduced now to silent, violent shaking as he gasped for breath.

When he looked up, Marie-Justine Giry had left the room. But soon he smelled brandy and saw that she had thrust a rather generous glass of it out in front his face, and was waiting for him to gather himself enough to take it.

He snatched it from her and managed to drink it down, sputtering as the sobs still escaped him. Its warmth in his throat and chest soon helped him to stop his trembling. He then sat still, chuckling only slightly and occasionally, as the tears streamed silently down his cheeks. He felt the warmth of her hand on his back, and turned to see her seated on the back of the sofa, apparently comforting him, though her expression was inscrutable. All he could read in her look was patience, and for that, he would have thanked God, but it was to her that he whispered "Thank you" instead.


End file.
